Through the Steel Lair
by Ridgeview
Summary: Conan's task was simple: Escort the noblewoman Amala to her home in the Nemedian capital of Belverus after a diplomatic mission. When their party is attacked by bandits, Conan and Amala flee into the mountains. While there, they stumble across something that could change the course of humanity.
1. Chapter 1

**Through the Steel Lair**

 **Chapter 1**

A tall man walked down a long lost trail, leading his ward over the mountains between Aquilonia and Nemedia. A full moon lit the way to Belverus, Nemedia's capital city.

The man hung a broadsword over his wide shoulders, its blade wrapped in furs. A mail shirt, glistening in the moonlight, covered his muscular chest. A riveted leather headband held back his mane of long black hair.

He peered into the darkness behind icy blue eyes, alert for danger. The discovered shortcut was risky, but it lost the Aqulionian raiders, saving him and his companion's life. His concentration broke at the sound of his name.

"Conan?"

The Cimmerian gritted his teeth, annoyed by the childlike voice.

"No Amala," he replied, in a whispered growl. "We are not there yet."

Conan contemplated his latest predicament. Amala and her retinue returned to the Border Range from their diplomatic mission when waylaid by bandits. She and Conan were cut off from the other bodyguards. In the chaos of battle, Conan led her into the mountains before they were run down. Since then, they were in a harried flight for their lives.

The spoiled noblewoman in his tow was riskier than the raiders. In hindsight, he might have taken his chances with them. He overcame worse odds before, though not with a lord's daughter to protect. The maze-like trail bought time, but at what cost? He recalled horror stories of caravans that met their doom on strange shortcuts, but forced them from his mind.

Amala's familiar pattering ceased. Conan whirled around, expecting trouble. He calmed at the sight of her leaning on a walking staff. He opened his mouth to chastise her for stopping, but hesitated. She looked back at him with sullen brown eyes, twinkling in the darkness. The pleading glance gentled the gruff barbarian. Her free hand strayed to a well-worn shoulder bag; the last of their provisions.

"I need to rest again," she said.

"By Crom," Conan replied, invoking the name of his mountain god. "Were I alone, I'd have gotten to Belverus by sundown!"

Amala pouted and lowered her head, covered by a white hood. Conan studied her face, attempting to discern whether it was all to manipulate him. Her intelligent gaze belied her childish demeanor. Her lips pursed too perfectly, as if she practiced the gesture front a mirror a thousand times.

Conan threw a hand up in frustration. "Bah, fine. But don't complain if we are found and captured...or worse."

Amala smiled. "I won't be long."

The noblewoman sat on a flat rock and placed the bag on her robed lap. Conan, ever protective, stayed on his feet and surveyed the horizon. After a moment, a metallic scraping came from Amala's position. He spun once more and watched as Amala tinkered with a bronze sphere in one hand. She manipulated a framework of metal rings attached to the sphere with the other.

"Is now the best time to play with that... _thing_?" Conan asked.

"This _thing_ ," Amala replied, mocking the way he said the word. "Is an astrolabe. And I'm not playing with it, I am adjusting it. But I wouldn't expect a layperson to know that."

Conan cocked an eyebrow. "Layperson?" he asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"Someone uneducated, a dullard."

Conan's face flushed with anger at the insult.

"I've beaten others for less than that girl..."

"And if one hair on my head is out of place —"

"Then your father won't pay me, I know."

He sighed and resumed his watch. Only the noise from Amala's astrolabe cut through the eerie silence trying his patience. He'd allow another moment, or two, then pick Amala off her feet and resume the journey, or threaten to smash her precious instrument. He promised to return her safely, but not her possessions. Conan held back a grin at the thought.

"What's that th— I mean astrolabe for anyway?" he asked.

"Charting the stars," she said, fixated on the device.

Conan stifled a laugh and shook his head. "I will never understand civilized folk. They would chart the stars by staring at their hands. But they're up there, plain for all to see." He gestured to the countless points of light dotting the evening sky.

"Our world, the sun and stars are always in motion," she explained, turning the rings around the metal globe. "It's useful for studying their ever changing distances and positions."

Conan glanced at the ground. It certainly didn't seem to be moving. He grunted. Best leave these strange notions to the academics in their ivory towers. They could keep their inventions too. Conan trusted his own senses.

"Real useful, that," Conan said, nodding to the astrolabe. "During the trade mission. The envoy looked less than impressed."

Amala looked up at Conan for the first time since pulling the device from the bag. Her fine countenance glowed under the starlight, giving her an angelic quality that Conan found striking, though he wouldn't show it.

"Sharing knowledge with our rivals to find common ground was worth the effort."

"Hah! _This_ is how you make peace girl," Conan replied, pointing to his broadsword.

"Exactly what I'd expect to hear...from a barbarian."

Conan glared, Amala pushed her luck. He clasped a meaty hand onto her slender shoulder.

"Your time is up, move."

The noblewoman stashed the astrolabe in the bag, rose from her seat and grabbed her staff. Conan placed her behind him and held his sword by his side, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. He stalked down the path with the grace of a panther, ears pricked for the faintest sound.

 _Crunch._

In a fluid motion, Conan did an about-face and started unsheathing his sword, stopping halfway. Amala nibbled on a wafer. Conan grimaced in frustration. "Do you even appreciate the situation we are in?"

Amala shrugged. "I was hungry."

"Make any more noise and we could be _dead!_ "

Amala swallowed the piece of wafer and stuck the rest in the bag. She wiped a bit of crumb off her lip with a silk sleeve and stared at Conan innocently. He marvelled at her ability to switch between a pampered child and learned erudite. His nostrils flared as he fought to keep himself in control. He slowly turned around and kept walking.

The pair descended the Border Range, carefully seeing their way down the twists and steep slopes of the forgotten path. It soon tapered off into a flat clearing, surrounded by a ring of stone columns; perfect for an ambush. Conan frowned; they reached a dead end. Until he spotted a narrow chasm that split the rock ring in two. It appeared to be the only way forward.

Another _crunch._ Conan's grip tightened on his sword handle. "Woman if you—"

"It wasn't me," Amala replied, holding up a hand.

The crunching noise grew louder, echoing within the crevice. Conan shed the fur wrapping from his broadsword, its blue steel shimmering in the night. He held it aloft in one hand, gesturing to Amala to back away. The surrealism of the creature squeezing through the rift would haunt Conan's memories for years to come. He sized up the threat, studying its alien features.

The beast opened its elongated snout, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Slimy green skin clung to its bones. It stood on four spidery legs. A single arm protruded from its back and arched forward like a scorpion's tail. Each limb had three long digits, ending in hooked claws. It snorted through a pig-like nose. Its wide black eyes bore hungrily into Conan's. Its toes dug into the dirt as it prepared to pounce.

The initial shock of the creature's appearance wore off. Conan's killer instincts kicked in as he raised his sword and assumed a fighting stance. He stared resolutely at the beast and grinned with battle lust. An unnatural shriek, the likes of which he never heard, escaped the monster's gaping maw. It sprang through the air with ease, bearing down on the barbarian's mailed chest.

Conan rolled out of the way, avoiding the blow by inches. He sprang up to counterattack when he saw the creature fix on Amala. She hugged her knees and clung to the rock wall in stunned horror. Whether the defenseless girl was too enticing to ignore, or the beast considered Conan harmless enough to turn its back to, the barbarian didn't know. In any case, the monstrosity left an opening. Conan put a hand over the pommel of his sword and drove it through the beast's ankle. Another alien scream reverberated through the clearing, accompanied by a sickening splinter of bone.

In a freakish burst of speed, the monster spun around and kicked at the barbarian. Conan shifted to avoid the claws, but the sinewy leg buffeted him off his feet. If not for the chainmail, he would have been knocked unconscious on the spot. The warrior thudded onto the dirt, the imprint of the monster's arm faintly visible in his armor.

"Conan!" Amala screamed.

The monster continued stalking its way to the girl. Half out of desire to complete his job, and half out chivalry, Conan forced himself to his feet in determination. He charged at his opponent's backside, ran up its spine and clutched its dorsal limb in a death grip. With a battle cry, Conan flexed his other arm and swung his blade in an arc that lopped the dorsal limb's hand clean off. It spiraled through the air, leaving a trail of dark blood in its wake until hiting the ground with a wet smack.

The creature's long forelegs reached up and clasped Conan's torso, throwing him overhead and slamming him against the ground. Its teeth hung inches over Conan's face, blasting him with hot breath. One chomp of its jaws would crush the man's face to a pulp. He braced himself for the worst, just as the butt of Amala's staff slammed into one of the creature's eyes. It reeled back, clutching it and screaming in agony. Conan stole a glance at the woman, who seemed surprised by her own action.

The monster staggered from the unexpected hit, Conan went for the killing blow. Running past the its long limbs where they couldn't reach, the barbarian closed in and sunk the broadsword hilt-deep through the chest. It shook violently for several seconds, until slumping to the ground, lifeless.

Just to be sure, Conan stepped on the nape of its neck and hacked away at it, screaming with each swing. The barbarian continued slicing through its tendons until the head was shorn from its body. The cold blooded savagery on display visibly unnerved Amala; but Conan paid her no mind. He kicked the head away, watching it roll until bumping against a rock.

Conan and Amala took several deep breaths as they recovered physically and psychologically from the attack. The barbarian gained a new respect for his ward. Where many would have lost all reason by what happened, Amala looked more curious now than terrified. She stepped toward the fresh corpse and prodded it with her staff.

"I've traveled the world," Conan said, pointing at the carcass with the tip of his bloodied sword. "And never saw anything so...unearthly."

"It's n-not in any of m-my library's bestiaries either," Amala replied, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

Conan found his sword's fur wrappings and used them to wipe the blood off the blade. The sheathe was soaked in the reeking liquid. He kicked them away in disgust and tucked the weapon through the broad belt over his loincloth. Amala's fixation on the dead creature broke as Conan took her by the wrist.

"We must keep moving," he said, leading her toward the chasm.

Amala shook her head. "N-no, I don't want to go through there."

He took her by the shoulders, attempting to keep his voice even. His adrenaline still ran high. "I promised to get you home, and that's what I'm going to do. We're still a day out from Belverus. We have little food, no water and the bandits could still find us. We _need_ to go."

Amala looked at the dark crevice, then back at the trail. "Let's cover our tracks as best we can."

The Cimmerian nodded in agreement. Amala used her staff to scramble their footprints in the sand. Conan found a sizeable rock and pushed it with effort toward the rift's opening. It covered almost all of the rift's height. Enough to conceal it partially and still permit the travelers to squeeze through.

Conan locked his fingers to give Amala a boost. She lay a foot on them and he sprung her up and over the rock. She climbed through the crawl space to the other side easily. Conan leaped and grasped the rock edge, hoisting himself over. Lying flat as he could on the its surface, he wriggled his giant bulk through the gap.

Conan breathed in the crevice's moist air as he landed on his feet. His hard leather boots sank into a rich, soily surface. The natural tunnel was devoid of light, except for the narrow opening ahead, where the moon's rays crept through. It looked just wide enough to could walk out the other side, one behind the other. He sensed Amala waiting nearby; he took the lead.

The companions crept toward the exit...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Conan tread softly to the tunnel's end, halting at a steep depression carved into the mountain. He raised a hand, signalling Amala to stop. The basin's shape was conical, narrowing into a V as it went down. Rock plates jutted from the sides at various distances, stretching the basin's length.

The most prominent feature rested on the surface opposite the travelers. A massive half cylinder protruded from the wall. It rose taller than any castle Conan had ever seen. Gray reflective metal comprised its exterior. A shattered glass dome capped the building, choked with overgrowth.

Conan and Amala exchanged confused glances at the oddity. Conan doubted his sanity, then recalled far stranger things he had seen in his lifetime.

"What do you suppose it is?" Amala asked.

"Crom only knows. But it's made of enough metal to forge an army's worth of weapons."

"An abandoned fort from a Nemedian-Aquilonian war?"

Conan gave her an incredulous look. "Built with enough steel for a major city?"

Amala shrugged as she took in the sight.

Conan crossed his arms and eyed it for several seconds. "Looks like we're going through that...'lair' or whatever it is. We can't afford to backtrack, lest the bandits catch up to us," he declared.

Amala clutched her staff and bit her lower lip. "Oh Conan, I don't like this... Is there no other way?"

Conan looked above. High jagged spires enclosed the basin. Any attempt to scale them would be suicidal, even to Conan, whose talent for climbing came naturally to Cimmerians. Getting down would be child's play – for him. The soft lived Amala would be a different story. It would take patience and caution, but not impossible thanks to the natural steps below.

The barbarian thought of a sarcrastic reply, but suppressed it. "Amala, the lair is our best chance. Let us take refuge there until we're sure the raiders are gone."

The girl considered the idea. "If there's a way out the other side we would save a lot of time. Make it to Belverus on schedule and not worry father..."

Conan nodded reassuringly. Amala used her staff to support her balance, and peered over the ledge.

"It may look scary," Conan admitted. "But we'll make it down if you follow my lead."

Conan crouched and gripped the coarse earth under him. He slinked to the lip of the basin and gently let himself down the incline. A crumbling of pebbles and dirt broke from the rock face as Conan's fingers raked down it, leaving a trail of dust. His boots struck the first plate with an audible thud.

"See?" he asked, looking up a Amala. "Not so bad."

Amala gingerly imitated Conan's scaling of the slope. But alas, she lost her footing and tumbled downward. She shrieked and fell into Conan's arms. Her hood threw back, revealing her raven mop of curly locks. Her cheeks blushed and eyes widened.

"Uh, you're getting the hang of it," he said, quickly setting her down.

Conan and Amala proceeded down the slope, sliding from step to step until landing on the last platform. The distance to the bottom was a little far, but not dangerously so. Conan gripped the ledge and hung off it, then let himself drop to the surface, leaving deep footprints in the sand. Amala peered over it apprehensively. Conan stretched his arms to her.

"Don't be afraid. I'll catch you if you fall."

The step began to crack, fragments of it crumbling away.

"Amala, _now!_ "

The noblewoman leaped off the step, just before it crumbled to pieces. Conan broke her fall, chunks of rock crashed around them. Amala's slender arms and supple body clung tight to Conan's waist, making him uncomfortable. He placed her down and turned his attention to the building's only entrance; a featureless oval door. A curious panel was adjacent to it, about the size of a hand.

"Let's take a moment," Amala said.

Conan nodded his assent. He noted the tiredness on her face. The long flight from the fringes of Aquilonia fatigued the barbarian too, though used to long journeys on foot. They breathed heavily, winded from the exertion of descending the rock wall. Their fingers and palms were reddened and scraped from digging into its clefts.

Amala approached the panel by the door. Conan caught up to her, wary of the object. In the center of the panel was a horizontal slot, over which hung a rectangluar shape made of dark glass. A small clear case attached itself to the left of the panel, behind which was a plain green card. Amala tugged at one side of the glass case, causing it to swivel open.

"I should see that," Conan said quickly.

He enveloped the card in his thick hand and studied it with a perplexed look. He held it to his nose and smelled it; no scent. He held it between his teeth; no flavor. He tried to rip it in two, but the strange material wouldn't tear.

"Conan, I think I—"

"Be silent, I'm trying to glean the purpose of this thing. Definitely not edible. Maybe a form of currency..."

Amala plucked the card from Conan and slid it through the panel's slot. The rectangle flashed green and _beeped!_ The door slid open with a _whoosh_ , revealing a long corridor of metal and ceramic plating. The pair stood in awed disbelief of it for several seconds. Flat glass panels ran across the ceiling, flooding the interior in brightness. Every few of the lights flickered on and off intermittenly.

Conan's hair stood on end and his blood ran cold. There was only one explanation for this: magic. Conan feared few things, but the occult and sorcery drew out a primal aversion in him. His skin crawled and his imagination ran wild with dark thoughts of what lurked beyond the entrance.

"That placed is accursed," he said.

Without realizing it, Conan walked backward from the lit door.

"You said its our best chance didn't you?" Amala asked.

The barbarian stood firm, resolving not to show fear. But a reluctance remained as he stared down the corridor. Amala stepped ahead of him and into the building. She ran a hand over the clean ivory walls and glanced up at the panes of _permanently lit glass_.

"Amala..." Conan warned.

He scratched his chin and looked to the rock steps behind them. The barbarian realized there was no going back. He and Amala would survive this ordeal or perish. With one hand on his sword pommel, he went after her.

"Its not accursed," Amala asserted, watching as Conan darted his eyes around the area with suspicion. "Its technology."

"Such as I've never seen," he replied. "Only the Atlanteans themselves could be so advanced."

"The historians back home might agree, but _this_ advanced?"

The pair continued until stopping at the end of the hall. It spit off into two wings. A double door was on the left wing. The wing on the right went a considerable distance further.

"We shouldn't go too far," Conan said. "It may be safe behind those doors. Let's sleep there for the night and recover our strength."

Amala started to speak when a distant sound echoed from a corner down the right wing. Conan readied himself for a fight. The sound rang louder: _Clank...clank...clank..._

A robotic figure, resembling a musclebound man, emerged from the corner. A dark purple singlet covered its metallic skin. A fine mesh mask concealed its face. Mechanical parts ground together inside it as it strode toward Amala and Conan. Its right hand clutched a fencing sword. It swung the weapon through the air, making a _swish_ each time.

A tinny, artificial voice boomed from a speaker behind the mask. "En garde!"

"What infernal machinery is this?" Conan thought aloud.

The mechanical fencer lunged at Conan, its needle-thin blade aimed for his heart. The barbarian swatted it away with the flat of his broadsword. He countered with a wide swing, attempting to slash open its midsection. The robot dodged the blade's edge by a wide berth. It held an arm behind its back and bent one knee forward in an elegant pose. It held its swordpoint straight at Conan, waving it in a taunting gesture. "En garde!" it repeated.

Tiring of the robot's strangeness, Conan delivered a mighty thrust of the broadsword. Before he realized it, the robot sidestepped the attack and cut into his left bicep, drawing blood.

"Argh!" Conan shouted, more from rage than pain.

The barbarian and fencing robot went back and forth, attacking, blocking and parrying. The robot's speed and precision nearly matched Conan's. More fresh cuts pierced Conan's flesh, though nothing life threatning. Conan knew his strength, but also his limits. He would run out of energy before the soulless machine did.

Summoning a final burst of power, he drove toward the fencer with a flurry of savage unpredictable sword swings. Amala ran past them and kneeled next to the robot as it backed from Conan's assaults. The girl stuck her staff out behind by the robot's legs and nodded to Conan.

With a mighty kick, Conan tripped the robot over the staff, crashing it onto its back. He raised his sword high and plunged it into the robot's chest. Its limbs convulsed, and sparks flew out of the wound. The air filled with the acrid smell of burning batteries as the gears and sprockets in the robot ground to a halt.

Conan clasped its mesh mask and ripped it off, flinging it away. He staggered back with a disgusted look at the sight of what appeared to be worms. Amala looked at them as well, her expression a mix of curiosity and revulsion. On closer inspection, the pair saw that it was a bunch of electrical wires coiling around the mask's mouth piece.

Conan stumbled up to the double doors, there were no visible handles or levers to open them. He stabbed his sword through the thin line separating each door and pried them open. He and Amala walked in. Amala gasped at a clothed skeleton sitting behind a desk. Behind the desk and over the skeleton's head, a red + sign hung on the wall.

"Strange mark," Conan noted. "Then again, everything here is strange..."

Conan studied the area. To his pleasant surprise, a row of beds took up the left wall. Mechanical instruments were attached to the side of each, but Conan couldn't guess for what purpose. It didn't matter to him however; their clean sheets and pillows were all he needed.

"We'll have a place to sleep for the night at least," he added.

Amala cautiously approached the skeleton, daring to study its clothes. The outfit comprised of a white double breasted overcoat with two rows of gold buttons. The skeleton's hands were placed on the desktop, covered in black leather gloves. Amala felt the material.

"No seams, stitching, wrinkes or other signs of wear..." she remarked.

"There are more important thing's than a dead man's clothes," Conan replied. "I'm starving, and we need water."

The girl walked to the right side of the room to where there was a row of cabinents. She began slowly and carefully opening them. Conan thanked Crom; the normally spiteful god had answered his prayers.

"Bandages, water bottles and maybe food?" Amala said.

"Finally, something recognizable," Conan said, taking the strips of bandages and applying them to his wounds.

"I don't recognize the bottle's material," Amala said, holding the transparent flexible container.

"Hell with the material, can we drink what's inside?"

Amala untwisted the cap, smelled the liquid and reluctantly took a sip. She looked pleasantly surprised.

"Its good!' she exclaimed. "Crisp, clean, though not cold..."

Amala tossed a bottle to Conan, who caught it in a hand. He undid the cap and took a long pull of the water. He closed his eyes and exhaled, enjoying his first refreshment in a long time.

"Now those," he said, nodding to a row of silver pouches.

Amala brought him one. He tore it open along a perforated line. Amala did the same with hers. They each pulled out a palm sized bar, made of stuck together cereal or grains. They felt dense and heavy in their hands, niether having much of a smell. Conan chewed on his; it was coarse and crumbly and tasted like oatmeal. It wasn't much, but it sated him.

After Conan patched himself up, quenched his thirst and filled his stomach, he and Amala made their way to their own beds. Niether had much time to ponder the surrealism and terror of their journey so far before sleep overtook them...


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Conan slept lightly. Years of practice enabled him to snap awake at the slightest disturbance. A stirring from behind the desk opened his eyes. He rose out of bed and grabbed his sword in one motion. He looked at Amala's bed across from him; she wasn't there. He flung his sheets off and got on his feet, heart racing. He scanned the room. His tension abated as he saw her work on something from behind the desktop.

"You startled me, girl," Conan grumbled. "Should've woken me first before fooling 'round this place."

"Come see what I'm working on."

Conan grunted and made his way to the desk. Amala had her astrolabe and a piece of parchment paper beside her. Several dots were drawn on it by a quill. A row of small square boxes lined across the desktop. They projected images of strange constellations Conan didn't recognize. Staring at the images, he wondered what magic could conjure them from nowhere. He dared to run his fingers down one of the glass screens; it was cool to the touch. _"Well, they don't burn like stars,"_ he thought.

"I flipped the switches on the bottom of these boxes," Amala explained. "And they made stars appear. I matched them to the star charts I made with my astrolabe. Look."

A line separated the parchment in two halves. One half had the constellations known to Conan from his nights sleeping under the stars. The other showed clusters of stars in unusal arrangements. Conan turned to Amala expectantly.

"Don't you see? _These_ were _their_ constellations!" Amala said, pointing to the unknown stars. The owners of this fortress came from the heavens. This has to be a...star...ship?"

"A ship with no sails or oars?"

Amala waved an arm around the room. "Look at all they've achieved. If anyone could build such a ship it would be them."

"Wherever this place is from doesn't matter. We've got to keep moving. I want us in Belverus by dusk."

Amala pulled a leather pouch from her satchel. "I filled this with the extra water bottles in the stores. Put in the wrapped food bars too."

"The smartest things you've done yet," Conan said, with the hint of a smirk.

Amala smiled narrowly at him and winced. "You'll need my smarts if we're going to get out of this," she retorted.

"And you'll need my strength as well."

The pair walked past the double doors and into the hall, where the fencing robot remained a wreck on the floor. Eventually they came to a left turn. Conan peered around the corner, ensuring it was safe. He saw another short passage that opened up to a cavernous chamber, partially obscured by a half opened door. It contained the same advanced machinery and dark screens as they saw in the last room.

Long strands of spiderwebs draped themselves over some of the equipment. Green rope-like vines crept through dilapidated sections of the chamber and dangled across the various objects of the room. Glass cylinders cast soft yellow light on the area.

"We'll go through there," Conan said. "But be careful for traps or creatures."

Amala nodded, holding her staff close to her chest.

Conan slid the door into a slot in the wall and entered the dim enclosure, poised to strike at anything that emerged from the shadows.

 _FLOOSH!_

Conan kicked into high gear, head darting from side to side at the noise. Bright round floodlights turned on, illuminating the area. A group of bloated bats, disturbed by the sudden burst of light, flew from the ceiling and screeched. Conan speared one of the bats as it dove toward him. The upper half of its carcass trailed slickly down the blade, coating the metal in slime, while its lower half plopped to the floor. The dead bat emitted a noxious cloud, causing Conan and Amala to cover their faces.

The remaining bats headed toward Conan, baring their sharp fangs. He screamed at them and wheeled his sword in their direction, hacking off wings and carving into skulls. The open wounds from the injured bats released enough gas from their bloated bodies to form a large noxious cloud. If not dealt with, it threatened to overwhelm the humans. Conan waved as much of the cloud away as he could with a free hand, holding his breath at the same time.

The gas bats that could still fly backed off for the moment. Conan quickly finished off the ones that were downed. He turned to check on Amala, who kept one at bay with her staff, covering her nose and mouth with her wide sleeve. Conan was running out of air, and felt the pungent odor seeping into his mouth and nostrils. He looked around for something to help with the situation.

In the far left corner of the area were two glass cases. Two suits of armor stood behind each. Conan hacked the glass covers to pieces. He reached through one and unclasped a helmet from the rest of the armor. He put it on just before running out of breath. His fingers went up to a canister near the mouth of the helmet and instinctively pressed a button in its center . Fresh oxygen rushed into the helmet, protecting Conan from the gas. He grabbed the other helmet and tossed it to Amala. The noblewoman followed suit, using hers on as he had.

The swarm attacked again. One of the bats bit deep into Conan's shoulder, his scream of pain muffled by the helmet. He squeezed the bat in a crushing grip, threw it to the floor and crushed it underfoot. The pressure pushed all of its gas out in a stream, causing an obscene noise to echo through the chamber.

Conan and Amala stood back to back, slicing or bludgeoning the last bats. The oxygen in each of their helmets ran out, but not before the gas dissipated. They took the helmets off, letting them drop to their feet.

"What happened?" Conan asked.

"We must have triggered the lights to go on when we entered somehow," Amala replied.

Conan saw Amala's eyes go wide at seeing his shoulder wound. The bite marks shot jolts of pain through him, but he fought not to show it. "I've had worse," he said.

"That needs attention," Amala replied sternly.

"If the last room was a kind of aid station, it didn't look equipped for anything like this."

"There's got to be something around. We'll find it."

The duo looked around the spacious environment. A large tube in the center stretched through the ceiling. Several doors ran around the circumference of the walls. Some of them had the same card machine that the lair's entrance did.

"Reckon there must be something valuable beyond the locked doors," Conan said. "Else they wouldn't need those cards to open them..."

"Let's see if we can scavenge some."

Conan wandered around the room, keeping one hand pressed against his shoulder to suppress the bleeding. He made his way around the other side of the tube. A bench bolted itself to a wall, on which sat another human skeleton in tattered clothes. A blue card rested in its bony fingers. Conan shook the card from its grip and tucked it behind his belt. Amala's voice rang out from afar.

"Found a red one in some metal scraps!"

"Good," he called back. "Now look for the doors that we can open with these."

Conan and Amala circled around the chamber and came to a door with a thick red stripe painted down one side. Amala slid her card in the door's slot. It opened with a whir. They carefully made their way inside. The room appeared to be a library. Rows of small cartridges in shelves occupied one side. Several desks, each with a built-in monitor and a tape sized slot, occupied the other.

"Almost looks like the scriptorium back home," Amala said.

"Only those definitely aren't books," Conan noted.

"No, they must be some other object on which to record information."

Amala approached a shelf of tapes, pushing away thick cobwebs and layers of dust to see them clearly. She started pulling them out one by one, studying their covers. Conan made his way over to one of the desks, gritting his teeth from the searing pain of his wound. He sat on the desk's seat and waited. Amala stopped at a tape and looked at it for a second, noting a red cross on its label. She showed it to Conan.

"Look, this has that same insignia on it from the other room. Maybe it has something to help us."

Conan nodded weakly, saving his strength.

Amala hurried over to Conan's desk and stuck the tape into the slot by the monitor. To their surprise, the monitor summoned moving images of what appeared to be a medical instructor. Whether the audio equipment no longer worked, or had to be accessed through some other device, the footage was silent.

A female human in a white lab coat displayed several instruments on a long flat table. She picked up a handheld device, with grooves set into it for gripping. A small button was where the thumb would be. A nozzle was on the opposite side. The camera panned to a man wrapped in several bandages.

The woman said something while placing the device up to the patient's shoulder, which was wounded similarly to Conan's. She pushed the button, causing a thick watery mist to splash onto the injury. It seemed to vanish in seconds. Amala touched the screen with a finger. "That's it! That must be a healing device. If we could find one, we could mend your wound."

Perhaps due to some technical error, the tape began skipping, showing the same sequence over and over. Amala popped the cartridge out and the monitor went dark again.

"I hope you're right. Though something tells me it won't be easy finding one in this damnable place."

"Well, we've got one more card to open a door with."

Conan and Amala went to the door with a blue stripe. They repeated the same thing as before, opening it with the matching card.

The pair came upon a grisly scene. Five human skeletons scattered themselves around the metal floor. Conan could tell at a glance that there had been a struggle. Though if it was between themselves or against some other foe, he wasn't sure.

One skeleton wore a tan jacket; it faced downward and its arms were splayed out. Conan tucked a boot under its ribcage and kicked it over. Strange medals pinned themselves to the skeleton's jacket. The barbarian guessed the long deceased person held some rank or role of authority. In its right hand, the skeleton clutched a strange tube with a hole at one end. The left gripped the same healing device seen from the tape cartridge. He knelt down and pried it from the bones.

Conan closed his eyes, braced himself and used the healing device on his wound. To his pleasant surprise, it shot a soothing stream of mist through him. The pain went away slowly until fading to nothing. What's more, the bleeding stopped and the holes left by the bat's bite sealed themselves up before his eyes. Amala looked as amazed by the gadget's healing powers as Conan.

"Incredible..." she whispered.

Conan moved to the other object of interest; a hollow metal tube. The device widened at the bottom, as if designed to be pressed against something. He picked it up and felt around it, noticing a trigger on the underside. He naturally moved the butt up to his shoulder, streadying the tube. Some intuition guided Conan's finger to the trigger. Amala stood away from Conan and off to the side.

"Be careful with that," she said. "We don't know what it—"

 _ZAAAP!_

Conan jumped in his skin as the tube shot forth a short beam of light. It bore into the corner of the ceiling, causing an explosion of sparks. The barbarian stood awestruck, the weapon still clutched in his hands.

"It sent forth a beam of light at the flip of a switch...how?" Conan said.

Conan tried to grasp the implications of this powerful technology. Its ability to turn the tide of a battle or change the balance of world power staggered the mind.

In their haste to see what was behind the blue door, they had ignored the rest of the room and its purpose. Looking around, they noticed that the walls were lined with unlocked cabinets. Curious, they began opening them. To their surprise, each cabinet was stocked with the "light throwers" as Conan called them, and other exotic weapons. It appeared they had discovered the lair's armory...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Amala picked through the equipment, fitting whatever she could in her bag.

"What are you doing?" Conan asked.

"Taking these relics to my people."

He stopped her from grabbing a pistol from a shelf. He placed it back and pulled the taken objects from the satchel.

"Hey!" Amala exclaimed.

"We aren't here to loot," Conan replied. "We're only to find a way out the lair's other side and get you home."

Amala stared at him, her eyes beginning to tear. "But there's eons of technological development here. It could advance civilization beyond our wildest imagination. We can't just leave it all to rot."

"We can and will."

Conan took her shoulders and guided her out of the armory. Amala defiantly spun around and slapped her hands against his chest.

"Don't tell me what to do," Amala replied. "You can't impede progress! Think about this!"

Conan firmly grasped Amala's arms and walked her into the middle of the chamber.

"You don't have the right!" Amala protested, struggling against his clutches. "My nation, the world, needs this technology."

"For what Amala? You're young. You haven't seen what I have. You don't know the dark side of human nature. These weapons will bring nought but untold suffering, pain and death. The world's not ready."

"But I _have_ seen my countrymen come home in coffins from skirmishing with Aquilonia. I've seen innocent men and women slain in the streets for half a coin." Amala folded her arms, glaring at Conan.

"All the more reason to keep the weapons here, or anything else for that matter. Eventually, your people's enemies will acquire them. Toe to toe battles become massacres between unseen foes using light throwers. Soldiers kill each other effortlessly until whole nations are emptied of their menfolk. Or unscrupulous peddlars sell the healing devices to the rich while the poor suffer a slow death. Imagine what a common thug could do in one of those armor suits."

Amala shook her head . "What do you care? I heard stories from father about you. You're just a sell sword, a cutthroat, a ...a...s _avage_!"

Conan sneered at the insult, face reddening in anger. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. Amala's eyes turned fearful, realizing she went too far.

"I fought for rich politicians whose only purpose in life was to grasp power for themselves," he grumbled. "I confronted sorcerers who did unspeakable things in their bid to conquer the world. I rescued captives of madmen who attempted cruel experiments on them to acquire dark knowledge. I do care Amala. That none of those monsters will ever wield such destructive tools."

Amala put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. "Hmph."

"We are wasting time. Let us see what that cental tube is about."

Conan observed the structure. Its hatch curved to fit the tube's shape. A control box was beside it, perhaps to operate whatever was beyond the door. The two stepped inside and saw a large map on their left. It displayed a cutaway of the building. A small red dot indicated where Conan and Amala were. It appeared they were in the center. There were many floors below them, almost stretching the length of the mountain itself. On the right side of the door was a control panel with one round button in the middle. An up arrow was over it, and a down arrow below. A small dark screen was set over the three buttons, with an adjacent card slot.

"This must be some kind of directory for the lair," Conan thought aloud.

A cold silence filled the room. Conan looked at Amala, whose eyes were downcast.

"Will you help us get out of this place or just sulk there?" he asked.

Without looking at him, Amala walked over to the directory. "The dot must indicate where we are. The area around it resembles this chamber," she replied flatly.

Conan drew a finger up the diagram toward the building's dome. "That must be the top. So if we can make this thing send us downward, it will take us to the base of the mountain."

Amala studied the control panel. She pressed the down arrow button. The cutaway highlighted each deck under them as she continued pushing it. Eventually it froze at the last one.

"Guess that's our stop," Amala said.

Conan pressed the circular button between the arrows and shrill buzzing rang out. The control panel's screen had showed a yellow card for a few seconds before it went blank again.

"I think it's saying we need a yellow card to access the bottom floor," Amala said.

"What lunatic designed this forsaken place!?"

Conan punched the side of the tube in frustration, making a hollow _clang_ sound as he did so.

Amala pressed the up arrow, followed by the middle one repeatedly. Each time the same buzz rang out and another colored card displayed on the screen.

"At this rate, we'll run out of colors," Conan joked.

"Last one," Amala said.

She pressed the button, and a soft electronic tone sounded. The highly pressurized elevator shot them upward, flying past each deck. Conan and Amala felt their stomachs sink to their feet.

"Whoa," Amala whispered.

"The one floor not requiring a blasted card, and its farthest from where we want to be," Conan grumbled.

The elevator came to a halt and the door slid open. Crisp air flowed through the crack in the glass dome. Natural sunlight poured in, illuminating the area. It resembled a terrarium or garden, teeming with exotic plants. The thick overgrowth reminded Conan of his adventures in the jungles of Darfar. Faint chittering or squeaking came through the vegetation. Conan raised a hand in caution.

"Shh. Stay low and quiet, we don't know what lurks here."

Something heavy crunched the grass underfoot. Broad leafed plants fluttered as it moved through them. Conan went prone and Amala followed suit. They lay as flat and quiet as possible, waiting to see what stomped through the foliage to a patch of grass ahead. To Conan's dismay, it was another of the reptilian creature that he and Amala overcame by the narrow passage.

It sniffed the grass with its pig-like nose, and waddled around on its spindly, slimy legs. Its backside arm dangled in the air as it went. Conan's fingers closed around the handle of his sword. If he used the element of surprise, he might score a quick, clean kill. If not, a prolonged fight could attract whatever else dwelled nearby. The barbarian weighed his options. He started to move ever so slightly, summoning the courage to charge headlong at the beast.

 _Thwack!_

Without warning, a spear flew through the trees and punctured the creature's back. Following it were four short creatures, resembling pygmies, but covered in mossy green skin. They wore ragged loincloths and wielded crude stone spears and hand axes. One of them, whom Conan guessed was their chief, wore a necklace on which hung a yellow card. In addition, Conan supposed this wasn't the first time the humanoid creatures took down such a beast. They climbed over the monster with practiced ease and finished it off with startling precision.

Once ensured their quarry was dead, the pygmies ripped into it with their claws and chewed through its flesh. Conan, who had seen all manner of horrific things, was unfazed by the scene. It proved to be too much for Amala, who started slinking away. The pygmies perked up at her rustling and looked for its source. Their keen yellow eyes locked onto Conan and Amala, blood dripping from their mouths. Wasting no time, Conan sprang to his feet and launched himself at the group.

The war chief, flanked by two fellow pygmies, ran at Conan and shouted in an incomprehensible language. The fourth one headed for Amala. The pygmy on the left sliced Conan's calf with its axe. The right leapt up and bit into Conan's bicep with its sharpened teeth. Before the chief could attack, Conan flexed his leg and threw a solid kick into its gut. It rolled head over heels through a pair of thick shrubs.

The barbarian swung his sword at the axe wielding pigmy, carving into its innards. It swayed on its feet before collapsing dead. With one hand, Conan grabbed the skull of the biting pygmy and slammed it to the ground. He knelt down and bashed the creature's head, making a stomach churning crunch each time. He finally stopped when the pygmy went limp and lifeless.

Conan checked on Amala, who somehow managed to keep her enemy at bay. He ran to her resue, but was still a good distance away. The pygmy, whose small sized belied its strength, managed to pin the girl down. It aimed a stone dagger at her throat, kept just inches away by her staff.

The barbarian poised to attack the pygmy from the rear, when a blood curdling scream came out. At first Conan didn't think it was his own, but he felt an intense burning unlike ever felt before. It radiated from his back and gave off a faint smell of burning flesh. He turned around to see the chief had recovered and carried a light thrower from some hidden stash. Conan fought through his agony and rose his sword to meet the chief's next attack. The chief brought the weapon up to finish Conan off, but a sadistic expression came over its face. Perhaps realizing Conan was protecting the girl, it aim the weapon at her instead.

Time froze as Conan sized up the situation. He had mere seconds to react. Amala jabbed her staff hard into her attacker's cheek, staggering it backward but opening a line of sight for the chief to shoot her. Years of battle hardened experience told Conan the chief would inevitably shoot the girl. Using his best judgment, timing and sense of distance, he leaned back and threw the sword. It didn't always work. The heavy broadsword wasn't necessarily designed for throwing; but Conan's practice, skill and familiarity with the weapon made it a viable tactic – sometimes. This was one such occasion.

The sword sailed through the air, catching Amala's reflection in its sheen and blocked the shot. The weapon thudded beside her, its blade unscathed by the light beam. She lied stunned by Conan's improbable feat.

The chief fiddled with its weapon, attempting to shoot again. Ingorning his burn, Conan ran full speed at the chief and tackled it to the ground. Flexing his muscular arms, he wrapped his hands across the chief's throat and cleched until its hands hurt. The chief gasped for air, but it never came. Its face froze, its eyes rose in the back of its head and its body went cold.

Realizing itself to be outnumbered, the last pygmy ran from Amala. Showing a talent of her own, Amala expertly pulled back her staff and chucked it at the pygmy's back. It thudded between its shoulder blades, crashing it to the ground. Conan wasted no time in retreiving his sword and delivering the killing blow. He turned to Amala in mild disbelief.

"How did you manage to do that?"

Amala smiled proudly. "Any self respecting Nemedian knows how to throw the javelin. My staff was close enough."

In a rare display of weakness for the stoic barbarian, Conan knelt to one knee, buckling from the wound in his back. Amala hurried over to inspect it, and gasped. If not for the mail armor, the shot would likely have been fatal. Summoning his strength, he forced himself back up to his feet and trudged in the direction where the chief had retrived its weapon. "The leader could be more where that light thrower came from," Conan said weakly. "Might be something there that can help me."

Amala ripped the yellow card necklace from the chief's corpse and sided up to Conan. Despite her petite figure, she attempted to support his weight as they plodded to the possible stash. They found a chair that had been taken from another area of the ship, serving as a makeshift throne. Bone necklaces and other trinkets hung around it. Various gadgets were strewn around its legs. One item resembled a pair of binoculars. The largest object was a white metal suitcase. Amala unclasped it and found several medical instruments inside: syringes, a salve, a roll of bandages and a pill bottle.

"Looks like more medicinal supplies," Amala said. "But I'm not sure what most of it is for."

"Do what you can," Conan said.

She started sanitizing the wound, applying a salve and dressing it. She found a powder that acted as a coagulent, sealing the bleeding cuts on Conan's bicep and calf. The hurting subsided somewhat, but an aching throb pounded his back. Conan tiredly removed the damaged mail and discarded it.

He sat on the chair, pulled a food bar from Amala's bag and chewed it, trying to take his mind off the lingering pain. In a moment of downtime, Amala took the binocular-like device and started to play with it. She strode to the edge of the glass dome and looked outside. marveling at the scope's ability to magnifiy her sight many times over.

"Oh no..." she whispered.

Conan got up and walked over to her. "What?"

His keen eyes didn't need the scope to realize what Amala saw. Twelve armored and armed men descended the wall of the basin with climbing equipment. The raiders had found them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"How?" Amala wondered aloud, as she and Conan hurried to the elevator.

"I reckon they heard the beast's screams that we killed outside the rift. The raiders must have been close to have located us so quickly."

"We have the card now," Amala said, holding it up. "We put it in the control panel and it takes us to the bottom floor where they can't get us."

"Don't underestimate their intelligence Amala. The tube's outer control box is probably meant to call the carriage back up or down from outside. They'll figure that out and then have us cornered."

Conan slid the elevator door open and ushered Amala inside. He closed the door shut behind him.

"I'm afraid we'll have to meet them head on. There's no other way."

Amala shook her head in confusion. "No, there's twelve of them and two of us. I'm not much of a fighter and you're seriously wounded. We've got to outrun them."

The barbarian crossed his arms and mulled over the situation. "I know the type of men these are. They aren't simple brigands. They won't just give up for easier marks. They're trained killers. Desperate to capture you for ransom. Or, they work for someone that will exact a high price for failure. Whatever the case, they _will_ run us down if we allow it. We'll make a stand at the chamber."

Conan pressed the panel's down arrow button until the chamber was highlighted. Luckily, it didn't require a card. The tube shot downward. Amala bit her lower lip, her eyes misting over. She forced back a scowl glare and clenched her fists together. "We're just so outnumbered," she muttered.

Conan put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "But not outmatched."

Amala looked at him as if to silently ask, _"What do you mean?"_

The elevator slowed to a crawl as it reached its destination. Upon exiting, the Cimmerian unsheathed his broadsword and pointed to the vines growing through the chamber's cracks. "First, we'll start with those..."

Two suits of armor lied flat on the ground and trained their rifles on the chamber's entrance doors. Tied to each gun's trigger were rope vines. Conan and Amala kneeled behind the elevator tube, holding the vines tight.

"Shame those suits didn't fit our sizes," Amala said.

"As far as the enemy's concerned, they did," Conan replied. "Remember the plan?"

"I'll trigger the trap up there," Amala began, pointing to a bed sheet scavenged from the sick bay.

It was shaped into a sack and filled with the broken parts of the robotic fencer, then suspended over the entryway by a rope of bedsheets tied together. The rope fit through a metal loop that had been bolted on the wall for long forgotten purpose and reached downward to just under Amala's kneecap. When she was ready, she would move it, causing the bag to free fall onto the unsuspecting enemy.

"Then pull the vines, causing our dummy soldiers to shoot the light throwers at the enemy," Conan continued.

"And once they realize they're decoys, we'll throw them those..." Amala's voiced trailed off, forgetting Conan's term.

"Smokers," he explained, pulling a couple of hand held metal orbs from Amala's bag. "One turn of their dials and they emit a thick fog instantly. Perfect for screening our movements."

"That's when we'll move to the armory and toss out the—"

"Blast orbs," Conan finished.

"How did you figure out what those things did anyway?"

Conan grinned. "While you were positioning the armor suits, I went into the study and picked through those record devices. One of them had a gauntlet on it, I took it for a military symbol. When I activated the tape, it showed a warrior demonstrating how to use the orbs. Good thing I didn't fool with the blasting ones before I knew how to operate them..."

"My, that was quite wise of you. I'd almost take you for someone civilized," Amala gibed, tongue firmly in cheek.

Conan took the joke; the situation called for some humor. "Glad to see you haven't lost your wit in all this."

"So what happens after the blasters?" Amala asked.

"That's when we improvise. If it gets too rough, you know what to do. Take shelter in the tube. If anything happens to me, go to the bottom most level and run as far as you can. Don't stop for anything."

A moment of silence came between them. Beats of sweat formed over Conan's brow, partly from the tension and partly from the stubborn aches and pains he sustained during the fighting. Amala was the first to speak. "Conan?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me about Crom..."

"He's a vengeful, reclusive god. Keeps to himself in his home of ice and frost under the mountains. At birth, he breathes courage and strength into you and sends you on your way. The wise don't pray to him, it would only gain his ire. But in your darkest hour, if you face your dangers fearlessly, Crom may just favor you."

Amala frowned at the grim description of the Cimmerian diety. "No offense, but I'm glad I don't worship him."

"And who does your family worship?"

"Ibis, the god of magic, knowledge and protection. His followers are scholarly and inquisitive. Some day, we'll join him in his great crypt and pore over its tomes of wisdom unto eternity."

"Hmph," Conan grunted. "I'll stick to Crom. But at least Ibis opposes Set. Never cared for that Stygian god and his cult of serpent lovers."

Amala was impressed by the lore Conan spoke of. "Didn't imagine you knew much theology."

"I've trod with plenty of holy men in my day, you pick things up."

Amala nodded. Their conversation was cut short as the entrance doors whirred open.

Without needing to be told, Amala released the rope pinned under her knee. The loaded bag fell onto the first raider's head, knocking him out cold.

The eleven others poured through the entrance. Conan assessed their strength. They wore brown leather cuirasses over red silk shirts and pants, iron skull caps and black boots and gloves. They wielded a variety of weapons, including sabers, short swords, maces and one held a pollaxe. At the same time Conan studied his opponents, he and Amala pulled their vine ropes, remotely shooting the light throwers.

One beam caught a raider unawares, as he skirted the fallen sack trap. It seared through his helmet, knocking him dead. Another beam winged a raider in his arm, but not enough to take him out. With effort, Conan and Amala could animate the armor with the vines, giving the illusion someone was actually in them. The raiders fell to the ground, shouting orders and taking cover where they could.

Eventually, the ruse was up. The disciplined raiders kept calm and realized the armor was being manipulated by the vines. Due to the armor's limited motion, the bolts were shot in a predictable direction and rate, making it easy for the raiders to avoid. Conan peered around the tube, seeing a raider grab a throwing axe from his backpack. He chucked it hard at Conan's vine, snapping it in half.

The pollaxe raider boldly charged Amala's armor, easily dodging the liner path of the beams and smashing the light thrower to pieces.

"Smokers!" Conan exclaimed.

"Right," she replied, dropping the vine for a smoke orb.

The raiders formed up and approached their position. Conan and Amala turned the orbs' dials and rolled them across the floor. Each one spewed thick clouds of white smoke. Fearing it was toxic, some of the raiders shied away and covered their faces. "The armory," Conan whispered.

Moving behind the smokescreen, they sneaked into the armory room and grabbed the blast orbs. In about a minute, the smoke dissipated. Conan slid the door open a crack to see outside. The raiders frantically searched for their targets. They went door to door, attempting to knock down those that were locked but their weapons were too weak.

Not wanting to bunch everyone up, the raiders' apparent leader split everyone into smaller groups. They divided into three teams of three and one group of two. One of the three man teams headed for the armory. Conan nodded to Amala. They primed their blast orbs to go off too quickly for the enemy to react. Once ready, Conan opened the door fully and he and Amala tossed the orbs. They bounced across the floor and stopped at the feet of the raiders.

Conan slammed shut the door, hearing the dulled report of the explosion behind its thick metal and the resulting screams. _"Eight left, one wounded,"_ Conan thought.

"Now they know where we are," Amala pointed out.

"There might be more useable weapons, search around."

They rummaged through the stores, looking for whatever they could to maintain their advantage. Most of the weapons were inoperable from disrepair. The raiders should have been at the door by now, Conan grew suspicious.

"Amala, can you see what's happening out there?"

The girl steeled her resolve and dared to crack the door open to peer outside.

"Looks like they've surrounded us from a distance. Maybe they're afraid of more blasters. Wait, one of them is lighting a torch. I think they'll try to smoke us out!"

"Or cook us inside the armory. Something tells me fire and these weapons won't mix."

Realizing they were being watched, one of the raiders threw a hand axe at the door. Amala shut it just in time, hearing the axe ping against the metal. Conan's thoughts raced to think of something that could bail them out. That's when he spotted an old dusty sheet covering a large object. He pulled it off to reveal a giant light thrower, about the size and shape of a thick tree limb. It supported itself on a tripod. Conan went prone, grabbed the mounted light thrower's twin handles and trained it on the doorway.

"Open it," Conan said.

Amala did so and got out of the way. The closest raider almost hurled the torch into the armory, when Conan shot the large light thrower. A thick, almost blinding beam of light burst from the thrower's barrel, causing it to recoil in Conan's hands. It consumed the torch bearer in a flash, engulfing him in flames. He screamed and ran around helplessly until crumpling to the floor in a blackened heap.

Most men would flee such a horrific scene, but the raiders were determined against all odds. The leader barked more orders. In response, the survivors scoured the chamber for large pieces of junk, scrap metal and crates to form a barrier between themselves and the armory. They worked with incredible speed, and within a minute, assembled an improvised, waist high wall. It appeared the battle reached a stalemate. The six raiders knelt behind the barrier, attempting to wait out Conan and Amala.

"What do we do know?" Amala asked.

"We charge them."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Amala's mouth made a silent O at Conan's words.

"I don't know what will happen," Conan said. "But I'm putting you in that tube. If I can't win, my last act is smashing the outer control box. You'll go to the bottom floor and pray for Ibis to guide you the rest of the way."

Amala shook her head and started to speak, but stopped. Conan flashed a smile.

"Ah, you realize this isn't up for debate. Who would have thought we'd get along after all?"

Amala gripped her staff and gave Conan a determined glance. "Let me fight with you."

Conan respected her bravery. "Honorable of you, girl. But you're still too innocent to see what I'm about to do."

Conan snatched her up in one arm and hoisted her over his shoulder. His free hand clutched his sword. He used the pommel slide the armory door open and ran out with all his speed. In that instant, he became more beast than man. He bellowed out a war cry that reverberated through the chamber's walls. His long hair and bandages streamed behind him, giving him a savage, otherworldly quality. Most intimidating of all were his smoldering blue eyes leering into the faces of his enemies.

He climbed over the junk metal wall and slammed his weight into the youngest raider in front of him. Perhaps thanks to Amala, the raiders hadn't attacked for fear of hurting their potential hostage.

The younger man hardly knew what hit him. The air was sucked out of his stomach under the combined mass of Conan and Amala. Conan recovered, rolling on to to his feet and sliding open the tube door to shove Amala in. He closed it shut and turned to face his enemies, using the tube wall to cover his back.

It was five against one. The man with the injured arm grasped a mace. The leader brandished a finely crafted saber. The pollaxe wielder still stood. The fourth held a throwing axe in each hand. The fifth clutched a short sword resembling a gladius. The leader called out a couple of names in Aquilonian, and two of the raiders moved to attack. The maceman closed in first, swinging his mace. The axeman poised to throw his weapons from afar.

Conan ignored the axeman, knowing well that the weapons would be hurled at him. He feigned to concentrate on the maceman's assault, sword readied to meet the mace's blow. To the maceman's surprise, Conan allowed the blunt weapon to slam into his midsection, absorbing the blow. At the same time, the hand axes whirled through the air. Conan reversed his broadsword so that the blade faced down and aligned with his forearm in a makeshift bracer. He lifted the sword up in perfect timing to block the axes.

With the barbarian's sword already raised, he followed with stabbing the weapon through the maceman's cheek. The broad blade sheared his brain stem, killing him in an instant. Blood spurted through his teeth, staining them red.

The leader called out another two names. The gladius wielder and the pollaxe user went in next. In a similar tactic, the pollaxe raider rushed headlong at the Cimmerian, as the gladius raider attacked Conan's flank. The short sword had little reach, making the polearm a larger threat. Conan took a split second to study the polearm; noticing its handle was made of bare wood.

It was a risky, death defying tactic, but Conan allowed the axe head within feet of his naked chest. He whirled his blade in a flash and split the pole in two. With his free hand, he grabbed the business end of the pollaxe in mid air before it pierced him. The glaidus was in striking distance, aiming for Conan's vitals. With his newly acquired weapon, Conan deflected the thrust and counterattacked. The axe head ripped open raider's carotid artery, condemning him to bleed out on the floor.

In all this, Conan never broke a sweat. He stared at the last three raiders quietly. One was unarmed; having run out of axes. The other had a splintered half staff. Conan locked eyes with the leader. Without looking away, he drove his broadsword into the chest of the winded man he knocked down earlier. The victim's limbs flapped like a fish out of water until his body went limp.

The leader's last two men attacked in a last ditch effort to turn the tide. From out of his boot, the axe thrower retrieved a poignard and ran toward Conan's left. The raider with the broken staff charged straight ahead. Conan dropped his half of the pollaxe and grabbed the left raider's wrist as it thrust the poignard. He jerked the arm toward himself, lurching the raider off balance.

From there, he skewered the man's throat with ease, ending him quickly. By then, the splintered staff raked down Conan's sword arm, hurting like a cat's scratch and leaving red welts on his flesh. Enraged, Conan swung the sword back around, carving a horizontal path halfway through the man's skull. The man's head slid off the blade and his collapsed to the ground.

It was just down to himself and the leader. Conan took stock of the adversary. His skin was sun tanned and leathery. He looked a good deal older than the barbarian, with wrinkles at the corner of his cold eyes. A scar ran down one cheek. The man twirled his saber gracefully and paced around the barbarian, sizing him up.

An unspoken realization came between them that they were both hardened slayers, and only one of them would live to see tomorrow. Conan estimated his opponent was quicker and more dexterous than himself. Additionally, Conan still hurt from injuries, while his enemy was fresh. The leader tested him, delivering a few quick strikes with his saber. Conan fended them off effortlessly, his blade ringing each time it connected the opposing blade.

Conan responded with a few feints, hoping to catch the swordsman off guard, but he was too experienced to fall for them. With a tricky maneuver, the swordsman got around Conan's sword and pricked one of his wounds. He gritted his teeth and wiped the tears from his eyes as his body jolted in pain. He lashed out with his broadsword, but the leader kept his distance. The Aquilonian gave a whirl of his saber in anticipation of another attack, backpedaling to keep a comfortable distance.

Conan slashed at the man's side. He noticed his opponent counter with a technical move. The leader sidestepped Conan's slash and lunged to cut the barbarian's ungaurded fingers. Conan's uncanny reflexes and perception realized this as it happened. He could either drop the sword and disarm himself or let his fingers get cut. It was an easy choice. In rapid motion, Conan dropped the sword, retracted his arms and leapt backward to clear the sneaky attack.

Embolded, the leader moved in, kicking Conan's sword away and jabbing his saber at the barbarian. Conan faked the intensity of his wounds, slowly lowering himself to the ground in mock pain. He almost made to throw his hands up in surrender, but didn't overdo the ruse. The leader sprang for the kill. Conan grabbed the corpse of the pollaxe man he slew and stood up. The saber lodged itself in the dead man's hauberk The leader frantically attempted to pull it out, but it stuck. Conan grinned, dropped the body and walked up to him. In a panic, the raider stepped away from the rapier.

The fighters squared off again. Conan took no particular fighting stance, content to stalk toward his enemy. The leader assumed a stance reminding Conan of the martial artists from the eastern realm of Khitai. The leader put his fists up and made to punch the barbarian while actually delivering a low kick. It was a solid hit to the barbarian's knee joint. Conan went down on one leg. He allowed himself to glance downward, spotting the fallen poignard just within his reach.

The leader threw a devastating chop. Before it landed, Conan grabbed the poignard, shot upward and stabbed it into his enemy's neck. The long thin blade went through the roof of his open mouth and his brain matter. His eyes rolled back and died while he was still on his feet. Conan gave his foe a final push, sending him down for good.

Conan couldn't leave the job unfinished. If one raider survived, he and Amala would never be safe. He hadn't forgotten about the man the sack trap rendered unconscious. He walked over to him with his broadsword and ended him in one swift stroke. He didn't enjoy slaying the helpless man, but the death was quick and painless. He made his way to the tube and slid open the door. Amala huddled against the wall, glancing up at Conan. She gasped at his sword, covered from hilt to tip in blood.

"It's done," he said.

Amala used the yellow card to send the elevator to the bottom floor. It opened up to a high corridor, lit with cylinders that ran across the cieling. A conveyor rolled along the floor slowly, next to a hand rail that stretched as far as they could see. They stepped on the belt, letting it take them down the shaft. Sections of the ship, visible behind thick glass windows, showed them more of the expansive building.

On one side, they looked into a room with various exercise equipment.

"A gymnasium," Amala said. It had a robot that looked similar to the fencer, but its arms held a lifting weight. Another long inactive robot was perpetually frozen in a martial arts pose.

A macabre scene on the other side showed a lounge. Skeletons, some of them partial, sat around tables and chairs. Empty cups and plates were strewn around a few of the tabletops. A bar stood near the back wall. A drink rack occupied a space behind it, but its inventory was long gone.

There were some more rooms after that, but not much to note. Eventually, they came to the end of the belt and what looked like a maintenance hangar. Small two man vehicles were parked against the sides. A skeleton held one of the vehicle's steering wheels. Conan walked up to it and noticed it wore a belt with a holster attached. It contained a small pistol. Conan retrieved the sidearm, correctly guessing it was a hand held "light thrower."

"I thought we weren't taking any technology with us," Amala said.

"I might have a temporary use for this."

They walked to what they hoped was the exit. They faced another door, this time with a checkered black and yellow stripe going down the side of it. Instead of a card system, it seemed to open by spinning a wheel. Conan grunted as he forefully turn the rusty wheel, causing the door to creak open. Sunlight flooded the area and a fresh breeze blew into the supply room. The feeling exhilarated Conan. Amala clasped her hands together in relief.

They walked out of the lair and turned around. They had made it to the base of the mountain. A naturally formed rocky arch enveloped the exit door. Conan took the pistol and fired at it. It broke into large chunks and covered the door completely. He placed the pistol down and smashed it into the smallest pieces he could, then scattered them across the dirt. Conan put a hand on Amala's back. "Come."

The two traveled for some time. The last of their water and bars were consumed along the way, and any evidence of them was buried. The sun hung low in the mid-afternoon. They would reach the city limits on time. The outline of Belverus was just visible on the horizon. Conan broke the long standing silence.

"No one will believe us if we told them what we saw. We'd be sent to an asylum for trying."

"Hmm. Once I get back, I _could_ get my father to send an expedition to the secret path and find it that way though..."

Conan regarded her quietly.

"But..." she continued. "I don't think I will."

Conan looked surprised. "You won't?"

"No, I thought about what you said and what we witnessed. I think it's for the best if the world waits a little longer to harness that kind of power. Maybe a lot longer."

Conan looked pleased with the woman. "So do I."

Amala studied Conan's wounds, looking sad. "I'm sorry about everything you went through for me."

Conan managed a smile. "I've had worse, if you can believe it. A pitcher of cool ale from the tavern cellar, a platter of Nemedian barbeque and some time in a sauna will mend me before you know it."

"I may not have taken back any technology, but I did receive years of inspiration. I'll use that to invent as much as I can to make the world a better place. I learned so much in that steel lair."

Conan smiled mischievously. "I learned something too."

Amala's eyebrows went up with interest. "Really? What?"

"That's the last time I ever take a shortcut."

Conan and Amala shared a hearty laugh as they headed into Belverus.


End file.
